The Critic

Chapter Twenty-Three
I

Nicole sat watching the President’s secretary copying a document and wondered why she was there. She had informed the university in writing that owing to personal circumstances she would be unable to continue her studies at the department of biology this year. She had been clear and unambiguous. But the summons from the university President had been equally clear. Her presence was required at two-thirty on Thursday afternoon. And she had begun to fret that perhaps they were going to demand compensation for loss of fees. Which would be something that neither she nor her father could afford.

Well, if she couldn’t pay, she couldn’t pay. They couldn’t make her. Only Monsieur Macleod could get blood out of a stone.

She sighed and glanced through an open door to the mezzanine where students stood around in animated groups, talking and laughing, drinking coffee and making the most of whatever time they had between lectures. And she envied them. She missed student life already, and nothing she could do at home seemed to please her father. No one, it appeared, could live up to the impossibly high standards set by her mother. And there was no way she could escape the daily comparison.

She was thoroughly miserable.

From behind the closed door of the President’s office, she heard men’s voices raised in what sounded like anger, and she was sure that she could hear Monsieur Macleod’s strange, Scottish-accented French among them.

‘I object to being ordered here like some schoolboy to be dressed down by the headmaster!’ Director Frauziol was red-faced with indignation. ‘This university has no jurisdiction over the police scientifique. We chose not to participate in your department of forensic science for the simple reason that we refuse to work with amateurs.’ He looked pointedly at Enzo.

Monsieur le President was the personification of calm, pouring oil on troubled waters. ‘Now why don’t we all just relax, gentlemen? You were not ordered here, Monsieur le Directeur. Your presence was requested. Isn’t that correct, Monsieur Gineste?’

Everyone looked towards the representative from the Ministry of Justice. ‘Absolutely, Monsieur le President. We are here to find a means of facilitating cooperation between the Toulouse laboratory of the police scientifique and the University of Paul Sabatier. At the request of the Garde des Seaux. We are all here at his pleasure.’

‘Well, I find it rich,’ Enzo said, ‘being called an amateur by an idiot.’ He glared at Director Frauziol.

Frauziol was unruffled. ‘An amateur is what you are, Macleod.’

‘ Monsieur Macleod, if you don’t mind. And in my case, the only reason you can’t call me a professional is that I don’t get paid for what I do. But I’m better qualified than you are.’

‘Qualifications that are not recognised in France.’

Enzo stabbed a finger at him across the room. ‘Well, let me tell you what the French press and public will recognise very quickly when they see it. And that’s incompetence. Yours.’

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, there’s no need for this.’ Monsieur le President looked longingly from the window towards the Lycee Bellevue at the far side of the Route de Narbonne. It was clear he wished he were somewhere else.

‘Yes there is,’ Enzo said. ‘The police scientifique is a publicly funded body, with a responsibility towards future generations of forensic scientists.’

‘We don’t have the time or manpower to waste sending trained scientists to talk to students, monsieur.’

‘Well, you’d better find both.’ Enzo leaned over and opened his canvas satchel. He pulled out a plastic evidence bag containing a white glove. ‘You’ll recognise this?’

The Director paled. ‘That was an oversight.’

‘An oversight? You call something that might well have cost men their lives an oversight? I would call it professional ineptitude.’

The fonctionnaire from the Ministry leaned forward to peer at the glove. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’

Enzo said, ‘A vital piece of blood evidence on an inside finger of this glove, which was missed by the lab in Toulouse, could have led to an earlier resolution of the murder of Gil Petty, and prevented the killing of others, including Petty’s daughter and Gendarme David Roussel. It belonged to Laurent de Bonneval’s father. Who, by a strange quirk of fate, gave a DNA sample, along with dozens of other men in the area, to rule himself out of a criminal investigation into a rape shortly before his death. That sample is still on the DNA database, and familial searching could have led us to his son at least two years ago.’

The fonctionnaire and the President turned to look at the Director. He remained resolutely silent.

Enzo said, ‘There’s not much any of us can do about it now. And if I can stop taking this personally for a minute, I’ll admit that I don’t blame Monsieur Frauziol per se.’ He turned towards Frauziol. ‘But as Director the buck has to stop with you.’ The dark cloud of depression left by David Roussel and Michelle Petty’s deaths still hung over him.

‘I have instigated a system of checks and balances to ensure that no such oversights occur in the future.’

Enzo said, ‘And I’ll tell you what else you’re going to do. You’re going to delegate an adjutant forensics officer to spend one afternoon a week lecturing to my students. And you’re going to give each year’s students access to your labs to see how the professionals are supposed to do it.’

‘Or what?’

Enzo held up the glove. ‘Or you might just be reading about your oversight in tomorrow’s edition of Liberation.’

The long silence which ensued, ended with a discreet clearing of the throat by the representative from the Ministry. ‘I think, Monsieur Frauziol, you might be well advised to arrive at an accommodation with the university. For all our sakes.’

Monsieur Frauziol looked as if he’d swallowed a golf ball. He stood up. ‘You’ll have to put your request in writing.’

Monsieur le President got to his feet, all smiles. ‘Excellent, excellent. I always knew we’d find some mutual agreement, some common ground.’

Enzo remained in his seat. ‘There is one other thing…’

And they all turned towards him expectantly.

Nicole stood up as the grim-faced adversaries filed out of the President’s office. Frauziol strode past her without acknowledgement. The fonctionnaire nodded politely. Monsieur le President poked his head around the door. ‘A moment, please, Amelie.’ His secretary grabbed her notebook and hurried into his office, closing the door behind her. Which left Enzo standing smiling fondly at Nicole.

‘Hello, Monsieur Macleod.’

‘Hello, Nicole.’

‘I don’t suppose you’d know why I’m here?’

‘Actually, yes. I do. It was a bit of a subterfuge really. It wasn’t the President who wanted to see you. It was me.’

She looked at him in astonishment. ‘But you can see me any time. I didn’t have to come here.’

‘That’s true. But I thought I might have news for you after my meeting today.’

She frowned. ‘You did? I mean, do you?’

‘Yes.’ He scuffed his foot idly on the carpet. ‘You haven’t cancelled the lease on your student digs yet, have you?’

‘I’m going to see the landlord this afternoon.’

‘Well, don’t.’

She shook her head, mystified. ‘Why?’

‘I just had an interesting conversation with the head of the forensics lab here in Toulouse. He’s agreed to provide us with lecturers and lab facilities.’

‘Oh?’ she said, trying to sound enthusiastic. ‘That’s good.’

‘He’s also agreed to find money in his budget to provide an annual scholarship for the best student of the year. As recommended by me, of course.’ He couldn’t stop the smile spreading across his face as her eyes widened. ‘And guess who I’m recommending for this year…’